Hope' is the thing with feathers—Sore must be the storm that could abash hope that keeps so many warm is marketedly distinct from J. Alfred Prufrock's take on hope. Or Eliot's. I will post The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock in my next post.
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
~ Emily Dickinson
I have sometimes believed that hope is a curse and the curse is its eternal springing. Hope, feathers included, is such a vulnerable emotion. It leads one to dare to hope that things might improve. Things seldom do.